


Trust

by babybrotherdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindfolds, Dom Amara, Dom Sam Winchester, Dom/sub, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Multi, Sub Dean Winchester, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6484795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He can take it. Trust me. He wants this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Because I wanted to write _something_ to celebrate how shamelessly submissive Dean is (slapped by a girl in a Zorro mask? Seriously?), and I couldn't decide between Demara and Wincest.

“He can take it. Trust me. He wants this.”

Dean is sightless with the silk blindfold that covers his eyes, but Amara’s hesitation is palpable in the air. He’s kneeling naked on the floor, rough carpet underneath him, arms bound at his back and knees spread wide, breathing soft and steady as he listens to them speak. Sam’s his anchor here, the one he trusts unconditionally and without any hesitation. Amara is new and different and scared of her own power, but Dean trusts her. He knows she isn’t going to hurt him, and that Sam has allowed this is enough to seal the deal.

He feels a hand cup his cheek, tilt his face up- large, rough; Sam, without a doubt- and a thumb brush over his lower lip, prompting him to let them part. His brother’s voice is soft as he continues. “I trust you. _Dean_ trusts you. He knows what he’s doing, and he knows his own limits.” A pause, and Sam gives him a firm pat on the cheek. “Or, well, he’s not very good at hiding it when he hits them.”

Dean rolls his eyes only because they can’t see it, because he’s sure it would earn him some discipline. He knows well enough to keep his mouth shut, and Sam’s hand slips into his hair, grip tightening and tugging just enough to expose his throat. “I could step out, if that would be easier.”

“No.” Amara finally speaks up, and Dean feels her approaching more than he hears her footsteps. There’s a certain sensation to her presence, a tingle that spreads down through Dean’s core and makes it hard to sit still. He’s never asked if Sam feels it, too. 

The fingertips that brush the curve of his jaw, barely skim down along the side of his neck before settling at the hollow of his throat are distinctly softer, feminine. Gentle, too, and Dean breathes a little softer with the warm sort of glow he can feel coming off of her. 

“I don’t understand,” she murmurs, sounds like she’s speaking to herself more than to Sam or Dean, “why you humans would _want_ to exchange pain for pleasure…” A moment of hesitation, and her fingertips press into Dean’s skin a little more, some trickle of power slipping through him that’s got him shivering. “You will stop me if you don’t wish to continue, yes?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s allowed to speak when asked a direct question, and he wants to assure her, anyways. “S’what safewords are for.”

A long moment of hesitation, but then her touch slips away, leaves Dean chasing after it before Sam catches him and tugs him back into place, sitting up straight. His brother speaks low, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and Dean bites his lip. “You think you can stay still for her, baby? Stay quiet?”

That time he just nods because he doesn’t feel capable of speech, anticipation already making him antsy as the submissive headspace begins to fog over everything else. Takes a deep breath and manages to respond. “Yes, sir.”

Sam smiles against his skin and then he’s just a memory, slipping away into the static that is the world around him. Dean’s left on his own, breathing softly and listening for movement, for the whisper of bare feet on carpet before soft fingertips trace the arch of his brow; a fleeting touch before she draws back her hand, and the fractions of seconds between the affection and the sting of the slap across the face are empty, a moment of total peace. 

He’s left gasping, panting for breath; feels his skin hot and reddening in the shape of her hand. Straightens himself up a moment later because _fuck,_ this is exactly what he came for.

“Go on,” he hears Sam encourage, and Amara must be enjoying this, too, because the next hit comes just as quick, throws his head the other way and it goes straight to his cock; the third splits his lip and leaves him tasting his own blood. It’s intoxicating and with the sound of his brother urging her on, he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to take this. 

Amara pauses, then, catches his chin in her hand and tilts his head up. Dean’s panting, lips parted for air, and he doesn’t hide a soft whine when she presses the pad of her thumb against the cut. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt,” she tells him. Stays quiet for a moment and Dean lets her take her time with this. Remembers holding her as a child months ago and swallows hard, a shiver going down his spine with the strange sort of eroticism of the thought. After raising his little brother, as well, he’s starting to think he has a type. “But I like seeing making you bleed.”

“You’ll get used to it.” And suddenly Sam’s a whole lot closer, circles around behind Dean and skims fingertips over the slopes of his shoulders, teases over the knob of his spine. “He looks pretty beat up, s’long as you’re the one doing it. Makin’ sure he’s safe.”

It’s a gentle sort of feeling and Dean thrives with it, presses up into the hand in his hair. Soaks up the affection and pain both because he knows he’s safe here. Knows he can trust both of them with everything he has to give and everything that no one else will ever see.

“I think I understand,” Amara replies, low and soft like she doesn’t want to break the moment. Stays quiet while Sam presses up behind him, slotting himself between Dean’s legs and nuzzling at the back of his neck. “It’s… trust.”

A quiet revelation for her and Dean aches to think that it’s something she hasn’t yet had for herself. She hasn’t been long on this Earth, but he can’t imagine she’s had much positive experience with making friends. He stays quiet because it’s his role, but catches her thumb between his lips and sucks gently like it’s the only reassurance he knows how to give. Here, now- maybe it is.

“You can keep going,” Sam tells her from where he’s settled himself, chest pressed to Dean’s back. His hands are wandering, petting down Dean’s sides, his hips and the insides of his thighs, just barely avoiding his leaking cock. “Whenever you’re ready.”

And so they continue. Amara experiments and Sam eggs her on, teases Dean where she doesn’t reach as she scrapes her nails over his skin and learns how hard she has to bite him before she draws blood. Dean’s a mess in between them, copper on his tongue and a haze in his mind, a blissful place where pain and pleasure blur into synonyms, where nothing is expected of him but to _feel._ By the time Sam wraps a hand around his cock, it’s almost a moot point; he’s riding the high of sensation and perhaps it’s Amara’s added influence but it’s somewhere he’s never been before.

Orgasm is toe-curling pleasure and a moan he doesn’t try to contain; the slow arch of his spine while fingernails rake lines down his chest, easing up when he starts to tremble. Knows he can lean into his brother and Sam will catch him, will hold him up when he can’t do it himself.

Sam’s arms are strong around his middle, but he stays quiet, and it’s when delicate fingers loosen his blindfold that Dean realizes he’s stepping back, allowing Amara to take control. When he can see again, she’s close, a flush to her cheeks that’s as unfamiliar as it is alluring, and she smiles at him, soft at the edges, joins him on her knees.

“You were perfect,” she tells him, taking his face between her hands with a tenderness that’s almost surprising. Brushes gentle thumbs over his cheekbones and Dean lets his eyes slip shut again, feeling entirely content. “You’re beautiful like this, Dean. My brother’s perfect creation.”

There’s a sort of wistfulness to the last bit, but Dean doesn’t pursue it as she kisses his forehead, the whisper of a butterfly’s wing. Sam’s freed his wrists and he’s free to slump against his brother’s chest properly, to catch his breath and _feel,_ to let Sam and Amara pet his skin, bring him down from his headspace.

It’s new and it’s different and it might actually work out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
